One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,

And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls :
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine,
(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark the pondering hermit view'd,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;

"And why should such," within himself he cried,
"Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?"
But what new marks of wonder soon take place,
In every settling feature of his face,

When from his vest the young companion bore
That cup, the generous landlord own'd before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
The sun emerging opes an azure sky;

A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day :
The weather courts them from the poor retreat,

And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel of uncertain thought;

His partner's acts without their cause appear,
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky,
Again the wanderers want a place to lie;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh,
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great:
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind.

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet:
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:

"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all I yield a part;
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer."

He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed,
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.
At length the world, renew'd by calm repose,
Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept,
And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride,
O strange return! grew black, and gasp'd, and died.
Horror of horrors! what! his only son?

How look'd our hermit when the fact was done!
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part,
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.
Confus'd and struck with silence at the deed,
He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed.
His steps the youth pursues; the country lay
Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way:
A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er
Was nice to find; the servant trod before;
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide.
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin,
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in ;
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.

Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
"Detested wretch!"-But scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man:
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal burst upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke (The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.)

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne:

These charms, success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind;
For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky ;-
Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.
"Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
"The Maker justly claims that world he made,
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends:
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The power exerts his attributes on high,
Your actions uses, nor controls your will,

And bids the doubting sons of men be still.

"What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust! "The great vain man, who far'd on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And fore'd his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross the silver runs below.

"Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God; (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, And measur'd back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run? But God, to save the father, took the sou. To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, (And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow,)

The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.

"But now had all his fortune felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back;
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew;
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew.
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky;
The fiery pomp ascending left to view;
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too.
The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
"Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done :"
Then gladly turning sought his ancient place,
And pass'd a life of piety and peace.

WHEN thy beauty appears

In its graces and airs,

SONG.

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky,
At distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears,

So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without art

Your kind thoughts you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein;

When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,

Then I know you're a woman again.

"There's a passion and pride

"In our sex (she replied)

"And thus (might I gratify both) I would do:

"Still an angel appear to each lover beside,

"But still be a woman to you."

G

EDWARD YOUNG, son of Edward Young, a fellow of Winchester College and rector of Upham, was born at Upham, near Winchester, in June, 1681. He received his early education on the foundation of Winchester College, and was afterwards transferred to New College, Oxford. In this university he obtained a Law Fellowship, and subsequently, in 1719, took the degree of Doctor of Civil Laws;-he also wrote poems at this time, and was distinguished for his Latin orations, but had not made himself eminently remarkable for the rigid morality which afterwards characterised his writings. Political connexions, as was usual in those days of party, soon wound themselves around him. He praised Addison, and was abused by Swift, who accused him of being a court pensioner. The truth of this charge is more than doubtful, since Young, shortly before the time to which it refers, had entered the Earl of Exeter's family as tutor to Lord Burleigh. After a year or two, however, it is certain that he resigned this occupation, at the pressing solicitations of the notorious Duke of Wharton, in favour of a dependance much less honourable. He now, for some years, lived upon town, and was understood to have had no small share in some of the actions which have associated the name of his noble patron with the "scorn and wonder of his days." The majority of his tragedies were written and produced during this period, and in the great success of the Revenge his reputation rose considerably. His public notoriety now threatened to remove him for ever from the grave and learned pursuits in which his life had begun. He adventured for a seat in the House of Commons, but, though supported by all the influence of the profligate Wharton, failed. He returned, in consequence, to his poetry, and vented it characteristically enough in the shape of satire. His "Universal Passion," keenly and powerfully written, was soon after given to the world; and was immediately acknowledged with all the attention and respect which were considered due to the holder of so sharp a pen. Young instantly, though now in his fiftieth year, entered into orders, was appointed chaplain to the king, and received a small living from his college. With his new profession his habits underwent a change so extreme as to defeat the purpose he had in view; for, though from this to the close of his life he would seem to have had the constant expectation of a bishopric, the distributors of such preferment took advantage of his professed love of retirement, and his fervent assertions of the vanity of ambitious desire, to bestow their mitres elsewhere. Young's disappointment in this respect was embittered by domestic calamities. In 1731 he had married a young widow, Lady Elizabeth Lee, the daughter of the Earl of Lichfield; and the issue of the marriage was a son, whose after follies "cast a gloom over the evening of his father's days." Nor was this Young's only cause of sorrow. His wife, and two of the children of his first marriage, to whom he was strongly attached, were successively removed from him by death.

"Insatiate archer! could not one suffice!

Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain !"

The victim of many sorrows and disappointments, Dr. Young, after publishing in a series of books his famous Night Thoughts, died in April 1765, having lived to his eighty-fourth year upon the small living granted him by his College.

Dr. Young was a man of great general powers of mind. He had an admirable command of language, and may stand in the first rank of gloomy satirists. In also admitting that in his Night Thoughts are to be found numerous passages of lofty and sustained reflection, it should be added that that work, neither in plan nor in execution, deserves the reputation it has acquired. It was not worthy of Young, after the life he had lived, to sit down near its close in a fit of resentful melancholy, and strive to terrify the world with the bugbears of religious horror. This is surely not what a true poet would have done, whose duty and whose pride it is to make poetry shed light and life upon man, not darkness and death, and who never sets himself a rigid task, or shuts himself up in a world of personal and morbid feeling, but goes round worlds universal, actual, infinite, and unseen, in visions of hope and beauty. The real portion of Dr. Young's powers found vent, as we have intimated, in the satirical form, and the general style of his epistles is remarkably terse and epigrammatic. His tragedy of the Revenge has kept possession of the stage; but its character of Zanga has been justly thought a vulgar caricature of Iago.